“I may be a lass, John Huxley, but I’ll nae be left behind whilst ye go about havin’ yer manly conversations,” she said sharply. “Broderick is my brother, and I ken the smugglin’ routes better than most.”
His smile turned wry as he retrieved an umbrella from the coach floor and opened it. “Indeed. But I thought you might like to wait until I have this open.” He tapped the handle of the umbrella he held above the door. “Or perhaps you enjoy being drenched.”
She paused. Gazed at her husband. He’d always treated her like a lady, she realized. Even when she’d been a perfect hoyden wearing trews and hurling insults, he’d insisted on a chaperone and resisted improprieties that might compromise her. John Huxley treated her as though she were delicate. Precious.
But he also afforded her the respect of making her own decisions. When she’d exhausted herself caring for Broderick, he’d understood it was what she had to do. So, rather than forbidding or taking charge, he’d given her his arms as a shelter. Without her needing to ask, he’d used every connection at his disposal to help her brother, not to gain her favor but because he knew how Broderick’s suffering broke her heart.
True, he hadn’t believed her about Finlay. That still stung. He’d failed to listen when he should have. And he hadn’t trusted her to love him for more than his title. But she understood his reasons better than before. He wasn’t perfect, her Englishman, but the way he loved her was.
Even now, he offered his hand with a look of amused expectation. She took it and stepped down into the shelter he offered. Rain pattered and splashed. His shoulder was getting wet.
“I love ye, English,” she said softly.
Warm, golden hazel sparked. A slow, devastatingly handsome grin appeared. “And I you.” For a moment, she thought he might kiss her, but he offered his arm and gestured toward the door of the two-story stone building in front of them. “Shall we?”
She nodded, overwhelmed by the glow inside her. “When we’re done here, ye’re goin’ to have a good night,” she said casually, looping her arm through his. “Very good.”
He chuckled, low and sensual. “Mmm. That sounds splendid, Lady Huxley. Does this mean I am forgiven?”
Arching a brow as he opened the door, she replied, “It means ye’ll be glad ye married a wee Scottish hoyden.”
He closed the umbrella and lightly cupped her waist before murmuring in her ear, “Too late, love. If I were any gladder, you’d never stop blushing.”
Chapter Twenty-One
TlU
Constable Neil Munro was a barrel-chested man of middling height with long, gray side whiskers and a steely demeanor. His office was spartan, small, and orderly. A framed letter of commendation hung on the wall. A plain but clean hat hung on a rack in the corner. And a sketch of David Skene lay on the desk.
“I do wish I could be of help to ye, my lord,” Munro said. He stood erect, his hands clasped behind his back in a military pose. “’Tis my earnest desire to dismantle Skene’s operation and put the blackguard where he belongs. If only I’d the resources available to do so.”
Given the zealous light in Munro’s eyes, John believed him. “We have reason to think Skene remained in Scotland. You’ve pursued him in the past. Is there anywhere he might consider sanctuary? His kin, perhaps?”
“He has none apart from a brother who hates him. The brother helped us shut down his distilleries last summer.”
John frowned and glanced at Annie. She shook her head as though this were the first she’d heard of it.
“Skene’s gang doesnae depend upon his own distilleries, so it was a temporary victory,” Munro explained. “Transport is his game. He has whole villages beholden to him. Allies that protect him. Makes catchin’ the rat nigh impossible.”
Nodding, John asked, “Do you know who his backers are?”
Again, the feverish light of a zealot entered the constable’s eyes. “I’ve a notion.”
Annie clutched John’s arm harder. “Who?” she asked.
Munro’s gaze slid over her dismissively before returning to address John. “Angus MacPherson.”
Annie’s head snapped back. “Are ye mad?”
John comforted her with a stroke of her waist. “Mr. Munro.”
“Sergeant Munro, m’lord.”
“Of course. Sergeant. I am … acquainted with Angus MacPherson, and I can assure you, he despises David Skene.”
The man bristled. “The MacPhersons skirted the law with their distillery for many, many years. Over my strenuous objections, they were granted a license last month.”
Indeed, John had helped facilitate it. He couldn’t have Annie’s family—his own family, now—at risk of being jailed for running an illegal distillery. But the MacPhersons had operated outside the excise laws for a long time, well earning the dislike of Sergeant Munro, which was why John and Annie were the ones paying him a visit. If Annie could refrain from revealing they were her family, John was likelier to get helpful answers than her father or brothers.
The officer continued, “I’ve no proof of their partnership, only a suspicion. But MacPherson control of Glenscannadoo is absolute. And I ken Skene’s support is centered there.”
“In Glenscannadoo? How do you know?”
“Last year, we intercepted his men transporting a load of French brandy between Inverness and Glasgow. One of the men carried a note from Skene to somebody in Glenscannadoo. Didnae say who. But every man, woman, and child in that village protects the MacPhersons no matter what. Excisemen come, their distillery is empty. My men and I go about askin’ questions, nobody kens anythin’. The MacPhersons are the only power in the glen.”
“What did the note say?”
Munro gave John a hard stare before rounding his desk and plucking a square of paper from beneath the sketch of Skene. He offered it to John.
The note contained a few sentences—no greeting and signed only with an S. As John read it, his blood went cold. “When did you obtain this?”
“September.”
Annie plucked it from his fingers. Her eyes widened with horror. “Good God, English. This is—”
He clasped her wrist gently and handed the note back to Munro. “You’re certain this was to be delivered in Glenscannadoo.”
Munro frowned. “Aye. Their route forked west when it should have continued south. One of Skene’s newer lads said they were meant to stop in the glen. He didnae ken where.”
Annie looked pale, so John thanked Munro and guided her back to the coach. As he gave instructions to the driver and climbed in behind her, she rasped, “Somebody we ken did that to Broderick, English. Somebody I ken.”
“We’ll discover who it was, love.” He offered his hand and instantly, she laced their fingers together.
“I must speak with Da.”
“Of course. We’ll speak with all the family.”